Under the uncut hairs of the willow tree I say my prayers to, sometimes the light will strike me in just the right place. A clandestine timeline unfolds before me, an opening, a gate.
We met teetering above an older timeline, where you were conceived. I knew you, but not like they knew you.
I recognized the markings by your right eye, I knew you like I knew myself, knew you like the back of my hand. But you are marvelous and dangerous, and to tell you then would have been crazy, and you are surrounded by crazy. I wanted to be something free of infection for you. You are like a magpie for good stories, with a poet's voice. Thick and heady, almost uncomfortable,like the marriage of two uncommon perfumes.
Sometimes the light strikes me internally in just the right place, and it feels like the warm light of your body. Your memory strikes me like a step mistook in the dark. I’m told there's a cord between us, thicker than oceans of salt red blood, a peculiar stain procured before this lifetime that will last to the next. I want to see your face, I want to see your face in the flesh and not in pixels, I want to know you beyond your propped up, pedestaled halloween costume, to feel your starry internal material, to touch your supernova. I am catapulted back to that eerie time right before the fire, where it felt as though I was intruding on the pages of a book already written. The feeling of invisible amputation. The synchronicities and symbols animated and echoed louder than god. I know there is a loophole, a window and a gate somewhere.
What needs to grow wildly hasn’t turned you yet, but it will, because I know this story like the back of my hand, because I wrote it.
Your name sounds like a breath, and means the same as mine.
Like Medicine and Myth.